Saving Saffron Sweeting (18 page)

‘But you met Michael?’

‘Yup. He was older, charming, so smooth. He persuaded me
to work for him, instead.’

‘And?’

Amelia started to dab foundation around my nose. ‘And for
ten years or so, it was lovely. But things changed after Oscar was
born. I think Michael had a midlife crisis – he was almost
certainly playing around.’

I sighed. Was this how every marriage came unstuck?

‘When he talked about escaping it all and moving to Spain,
well, we didn’t last long after that.’

‘Oh.’ I digested this. ‘So he went to
Spain?’

‘No. Turned out he just needed to escape from me.’
She wiped her fingers on a tissue before inspecting my face.

‘How long ago was this?’ I asked.

‘Gosh, I dunno, eight, nine years.’

‘But you seem … fine, now.’

‘I’ve had my share of dark moments.’

Did she mean the alcohol? I waited for more, but she
didn’t elaborate. Instead, she started selecting make-up
colours. I wriggled nervously in front of the mirror, wondering if
I had been right to agree to this. I was a minimal make-up wearer,
who liked to put it on at eight in the morning, then forget about
it.

‘Relax,’ Amelia said, ‘I’m not going to
make you look like a clown. Let’s try this eyeshadow and see
what you think.’

I took a glug of the red wine I had brought. I’d purchased
it at the post office and it was evident that Violet was not one of
the world’s great vintners. In fact, it was only really fit
for sangria. Still, it dulled my nerves as Amelia dabbed, brushed
and blended.

She was shockingly quick and I was half disappointed when, after
only about ten minutes, she stood back and said,
‘Gorgeous.’

Not quite the words I would have used, but I had to agree I
looked good. She had brushed tawny eyeshadow on my lids, with some
kind of highlighter on my brow bones and cheekbones. Dark brown
mascara made me look more awake than usual. And rather than heavy
lipstick, she had skimmed my mouth with a gentle rose lip gloss. I
resisted the urge to lick if off immediately. The overall effect
was healthy and flirtatious.

‘Do you like it?’ she asked me, looking
confident.

‘I do.’ I peered at myself again while the surprise
wore off. ‘I don’t know how to say this modestly, but I
really do.’

I wondered what James would think if he could see me, then
reminded myself sternly that I shouldn’t care.

‘Excellent!’ Amelia clapped her hands fleetingly,
like a girl forty years younger. ‘Well, that was fun. Now,
come through to the kitchen and we’ll have a proper
drink.’

I settled myself at the island in her sleek and stylish kitchen,
surreptitiously checking out my surroundings. I loved the black and
white tiles behind her stove, but didn’t fancy keeping the
inky granite counters free of smears. Then again, I suspected she
rarely cooked.

‘Tomorrow,’ Amelia said, bringing out a bottle of
vodka, ‘we can look at your clothes. That still gives us
late-night shopping on Wednesday if we have to get you something
new.’

‘Okay,’ I said meekly, declining the booze. I was
starting to feel this council meeting might not be the end of the
world. Amelia had already made me prepare a set of reminder index
cards to hold, in case my mind went totally blank.

Amelia poured herself a generous splash of vodka, adding a
thimbleful of orange juice for garnish. Then she perched on a stool
at the island, sweeping a pile of paper to one side. I knew she
worked hard, but had no idea she brought quite this much home with
her.

‘What is all this stuff?’ I asked. ‘New
listings?’

‘Most of it’s for an investment I’m
considering. And some industry reading, which of course I always
fall asleep before I get to. Oh, and the odd deal for a
client.’

I was impressed. My idea of an investment these days was a
moth-eaten Union Jack flag.

Amelia looked at me carefully. ‘Grace,’ she started,
‘I didn’t want to tell you this sooner because I
thought you’d get in a tizz about it.’

I sucked in my cheeks.

‘You know you tend to worry about things that might never
happen,’ she continued, extracting some papers from the pile.
‘But it does look now as if it’s going
through.’

‘What’s going through?’

She passed me the papers and I saw they were from her scary
solicitor friend. It took me a few moments to process the legal
mumbo jumbo. I pushed them away from me with a sigh.

‘Well, that’s all I need.’ I ran my tongue
around my teeth, remembering my beautiful lip gloss a fraction too
late. Then, I added stoically, ‘I don’t suppose
you’ve got any ice cream?’

‘I’m sorry, darling.’ Amelia shook her head
and reached for my hand.

I don’t know whether she was apologising for her
badly-stocked pantry with its dearth of frozen desserts, or for her
imminent success in selling my cottage.

Just as the parish council request had
overshadowed my fight with Nancy, so the prospect of becoming
homeless took my mind off the talk.

I was surprised how rattled I was at the prospect of losing the
cottage. After all, I’d lived there less than three months.
But, ever since I was a kid, my surroundings had been important to
me: around the age of thirteen, I remember begging my mum to change
the wallpaper and bed linen in my room to a Laura Ashley print. And
the recent small improvements I’d made to the cottage had
made it feel like mine. It was the anchor point in my new life and
I looked forward to coming home each night.

I didn’t blame Amelia for not telling me sooner. She was
right: I would have tortured myself with what-if scenarios. As it
was, she’d told me the sale was still being negotiated and
would take at least a month to become final. At that point, she
promised to throw her considerable influence behind finding new
digs for me.

‘Just go with the flow, Grace,’ she’d said.
‘It’ll all be fine.’

September was delivering a shaky Indian summer
and the evening of the parish council meeting was humid. When we
arrived at the village hall, I was dismayed to see so many sweaty
bodies crammed into the dark, musty space. Had they got the wrong
night? Did they think this was the thrilling alternative of
Neighbourhood Watch?

I was wearing flowing silky trousers in a quiet shade of
mushroom, purchased in John Lewis the day before. On my feet were
bronze sandals with a chunky heel, loaned by Amelia to make me look
taller but hopefully not in danger of ‘taking a
tumble’. We’d also found a stretchy top in a green and
cream print, slightly ruffled around the neckline. The ruffles had
the surprising side effect of enhancing my chest size, and
I’d been reluctant to wear it for a business meeting.

Amelia, though, had brushed this objection aside.
‘Don’t be daft! You look fabulous and the colours bring
out your eyes.’

She had done my make-up again and so far I had kept my nervous
teeth away from the lip gloss. In fact, my anxious molars had been
greatly helped by a large glass of Sauvignon Blanc before we set
out.

So now, all I had to do was talk. Simple, right? I sat at the
end of the front row and tried to listen as Brian introduced me.
But my ears couldn’t process his words. My insides were
churning like a butter factory and my tongue discovered that my
mouth was as dry as plain toast. Did I have time to make it to the
loo and throw up?

I did not. To scattered applause from the audience and a
cheerful poke in the ribs from Amelia, I stood, turned and faced a
sea of expectant faces. In reality, there were probably only thirty
people present, but in the little hall, I felt as if I were facing
several hundred. There was no stage and no microphone, and I was
grateful to my employer for her choice of shoes.

‘Thank you for inviting me,’ I began. I paused,
coughed, and instantly forgot all I had planned to say. In a panic,
I looked down at my first index card.

‘My name is Grace Palmer and I’ve just returned from
four years in California. Nonetheless, England is my home and
always will be.’

‘Speak up,’ someone hollered.

I tried again. ‘I’m enormously grateful for the
welcome given to me by the kind residents of Saffron
Sweeting.’ That was louder and better. I swallowed and
remembered to exhale. Risking a look at my tormentors, I discovered
friendly faces amongst the mob. Brian was there, of course.
Lorraine and Marjorie were sitting in the third row, as was Violet,
although she looked more sceptical than supportive. Standing at the
back, apparently a late arrival, was Peter. He waved at me and gave
me his big grin. I smiled back and felt my jaw relax a little.

‘I’ve been asked to talk to you this evening because
it seems a fresh perspective may be useful. I don’t have too
much expertise in this area –’

‘Rubbish,’ Brian heckled cheerfully.

‘– but I’ll be happy to offer some suggestions
on attracting new customers to your business.’

I glanced at Amelia, who was nodding encouragingly, like a proud
mother at a school nativity play.

‘It’s no secret that the population of Saffron
Sweeting is growing,’ I continued. ‘And I think
that’s a good thing. The opportunities from the newcomers
from America are huge. However, with new customers come new
expectations. I encourage you to consider adapting to these new
demands. Go with this new tide and see where it takes
you.’

My own nervous tide was still swooshing around in my stomach,
but it was more gentle now. And at least they were listening.
‘The topic you’ve given me is tricky to cover, without
making sweeping generalisations.’ This had been my biggest
fear: how to talk about both Yanks and Limeys without offending
both groups horribly. I had agonised over the right choice of
words. Words which had now deserted me.

I thought about the little tables and umbrellas outside the
bakery, and pressed on. ‘Some of the principles apply
regardless of who you think your customers are. Some are more
targeted at our cousins from across the Atlantic.’

I caught Lorraine’s eye and she gave me a thumbs up.
Violet was fanning herself but at least she hadn’t walked
out. In fact, nobody had. I remembered my index cards and realised
I had reached the meaty part of my talk. Right, Grace Palmer,
here goes
.

Fifteen minutes later, as I sat down to enthusiastic applause, I
found I had been concentrating so hard on getting my message
across, I had forgotten to worry about how they were receiving
it.

I had talked about the importance of personalising the product
or service: ‘Spotted Dick shouldn’t always have to come
with custard’. I had waxed lyrical on the need to be found
easily online, along with the possibilities presented by social
media. I had been passionate in my request that they listen to
their customers: ‘Ask them what they think. Your average
American is more forthcoming than your average Brit: I bet
they’ll tell you. And when they do, thank them and tell them
to Have a Nice Day!’

And I had told them of my belief in beefing up their product or
service: ‘Add some value. Give something for nothing. For the
bakery, free refills seem to be working already. For the antiques
store, it means free delivery. At the pub, give them a free glass
of water.’ The landlord looked horrified. ‘Go on, I
dare you,’ I’d insisted, my nerves, by this time,
melting on the floor beside me. ‘But when you do improve your
service or make it a little special, don’t forget to put your
prices up.’ A murmur skittered through the room and I jumped
on it. ‘These people have money. Forget competing on price:
compete on value.’ It was hardly rocket science, but
apparently it was a message they hadn’t heard before. I hoped
the principle would hold as true in Saffron Sweeting as it did in
Silicon Valley.

For my parting shot, I had thrown out a challenge. ‘Ladies
and gentlemen, members of the parish council, all these ideas are
worthy of your attention and I hope they prove useful. But as a
community, we must seize a short-term opportunity.’ A rustle
ran along each row, which I hoped was the audience sitting up to
take notice, rather than getting ready to lynch me. ‘In seven
weeks’ time, it’s Halloween. If you have ever visited
the States in October, you might be aware that this is
huge.’

Briefly, I had asked them to imagine American families spending
their first autumn in Europe and their expectations of this
‘holiday’. I had stressed the good-natured,
family-friendly aspects of Halloween, which were a million miles
away from the teenage egg-throwing which took place in many of
Britain’s suburbs. I had explained the importance of
pumpkins, of costumes, of trick-or-treating and candy bowls. I had
suggested a parade, a party, a pumpkin carving contest. I had
challenged each business to come up with some reason for every
little princess or pirate to visit their shop or office, with
parents firmly in tow. In short, I’d begged,
‘Don’t let them wake up disappointed on the first of
November.’

The chairman of the council, who resembled an
octogenarian Galapagos tortoise, thanked me and adjourned the
meeting. This triggered much discussion and debate in the crowded,
clammy hall. I was surrounded by my cluster of supporters, who were
effusive in their praise. Amelia hugged me and said ‘Jolly
good show. Nice sandals too.’

Lorraine told me the plumber had already visited and that work
would start next week. Even Kenneth from the library shook my hand.
‘Most intriguing,’ he said gallantly, then intercepted
Violet as she headed for the exit. ‘What did you make of it,
Violet? Intriguing, no?’

I braced myself as Violet adjusted her handbag on her arm. Was
she about to take a swing at me? However, she gave a tight smile
and said, ‘Very interesting, Grace. Very
interesting.’